The new war story thread

[Cloney 0]

Theme: The Upcoming Gulf War

Notes: Please try to keep the thread as realistic as possible, other war story threads on these forums have been extremely successful and we've gotten some truly excellent work.

I will Start....

Vasquez peered around in the cabin of the black chinook helicopter that was to insert his platoon. Their mission was to secure an Iraqi airfield to facilitate future airmobile operations deeper into Iraq. On the map, the airfield didn't look like much, but in the intelligence photos it was a whole different story.

Intelligence said that the airfield was well equipped with Fueling areas for helicopters, maintinance hangers and other valuable equipment to a unit using helicopters. It was vital that the Iraqi didn't secure this valuable objective. Other documents said that it was defended by Iraqi militia and that they would most likely surrender rather than fight against experienced American regulars.

The chopper was nearing the insertion-zone.

"30 Seconds!" The pilot hailed over the intercom.

Vasquez looked at his soldiers, each one had a burning desire to get this mission overwith. Vasquez loaded a single 30-round magazine into his M4A1 Carbine and removed the cover on its M68 Aimpoint sight.

The chopper thudded when it hit the ground and the back ramp lowered, the Airmobile troopers lost no time and rushed out into the hazy desert night, securing the parimeter until the entire platoon could disembark. The chopper pulled away gracefully, turning back to its base in Saudi Arabia.

Vasquez signaled his squad to advance. Seargant Kensingsen, his senior platoon seargant, signalled the men to move up to the berm just south east of the landing zone, over that hill laid the airfield. Vasquez jumped to his feet and went prone as he approached the tip of the berm, carefully watching for any Iraqi infantry patrols. He scanned the parimeter through his night scopes until he saw it... 3 brand new T-80U tanks, sitting, crews at the ready, next to the tarmac. They were just waiting for something to happen.

"Command, this is Whiskey Four-Three. We have enemy armored contacts. Coordinates Zero Zero Six Two Five Bearing 190. Type is Tango Eight Zero Ultra, I repeat T-80U tanks at specified objective. Requesting immediate air support, over." Vasquez stuffed his radio back into his webbing and turned to Sgt Kensingsen.

The Seargent has seen the T-80s through the scope of his M-14 rifle. He shook his head and muttered...

"Goddamn Military Intelligence. Now thats a contradiction If I ever heard one."

"Roger that Seargant" Vasques said as he peered through the binoculars at the looming T-80 tanks. He just didn't understand how intelligence had missed them. Now they were poised to strike if they made even the slightest move.

Vasquez moved down the column of alert soldiers and tapped each of his anti-tank soldiers on the shoulder. One had a Javelin Anti-Tank weapon, the other two had AT-4 rocket launchers. Vasquez motioned to each of the soldiers,

"Follow Me"

[Albert Schweitzer 10]

The tanks did not move even though the landing must have been visible to any enemy force around. Maybe the T-80ies secure a far more important target than what was being pointed out in our mission-objectives. Maybe the target itself had been moved? Or maybe this was a trap-target. The low incoming-information gave little clearance in that case so he could only count on his own interpretation of the mission..of course risking taking not only a desasterous decision but also one that would harm his mission objectives. He had little time to decide nor did the intensive sun gave him the power to objectively overthink the situation.

"What shall we do?" ... those words even rushed him more into a decision he didnt want to take!

[PHY_Hawkeye 0]

Captain Clarke, U.S.M.C. lay in the shadow cast by the moonlight falling against his AH-1W, enjoying a smoke and recalling past conflicts in his life. He was rembering the Tora Bora incident. Wonder what happened to those guys. After his tour in Afghanistan he'd been reassigned to fly Cobras, although he stayed with the same unit, HMLA-369 "Gunfighters".

The unit was stationed at a FARP which was technically within Iraqs boarder. But that didn't seem to matter right now. He wore his tan colored flight suit and a Boonie hat. He and his wingman were on standby for immediate takeoff. This pissed off the pilots because it ment thay had to stay near their aircraft, and they never actually had to scramble. After all, the war hadn't really started yet, had it? Why the hell did all the fighting have to take place in deserts? Why can't we have a war in a nice hospitible climate for once? His weapons systems operator (WSO), CWO-2 Laurence, strolled around the nose of the ship. "Those things will kill you sir." He pointed to the cigarette. "Yeah?" Clarke replied, "Given my line of work, if these are the only things that kill me, I figure I'm doing O.K."

Laurence rolled his eyes and began to sit down in the shade when a young Lieutenant came running towards them. "Get those birds in the air!" They both jumped up and climbed into the cockpit. "Whats this about?" enquired Clarke. A snap answer followed, "Briefing over the radio sir." The kid ran on towards the second Cobra to deliver the same message. Clarke setteled into his seat and pulled on his helmet, starting the preflight sequence. A corporal closed and locked the canopy, giving Clarke and Laurance a quick thumbs up before running away from the already turning rotor.

Two minutes later the engines were at good R.P.M.s and the crews were listen to Major Castors briefing. "Some Army boys have reported armored contacts at co-ordinates Zero Zero Six Two Five Bearing 190. They're on a mission to secure an airfield and need those tanks taken care of. The units callsign is Whiskey Four-Three. Your callsigns are Kilo Two-One and Two-Two. Get moving boys, check in at 10 kilcks out. Good luck." Clarke spoke, "Rodger that Six. Two, lets go, loose formation." He pulled up on the collective and gave her a little left peddel to counter the torque. The AH-1s rose gracefully and headed off towards the Iraqi desert. The comm clicked in Clarkes ear, it was Laurence. "You've seen allot of combat sir. Is this going to be tough?" Laurance had never seen combat before. Clarke on the other hand, was a veterans of Operations Restore Hope, Desert Storm, Allied Force and Enduring Freedom. "Don't worry kid, this sounds like a walk in tha park."

They flew onward into the desert skys.....

[Blake 0]

PFC Pyle peeled from his foxhole. Everything seemed to be clear. Then out of nowhere, AK-47 fired a single shot and hit Pyle in the head penetrating his helmet. He was killed instantly. The End.

[Col. Kurtz 0]

"Why did I have to be sent here?" The Iraqi conscript soldier grumbled to himself. He was squatting in a slit trench of the Kuwati-Iraqi border, waiting for the Americans to come. The bombing had started. Everyday for the last two weeks the soldier had watched American and British bomber planes screech over the desert, loaded with bombs, then return without the bombs. The soldier's unit had been bombed twice as well. First bombs had been dropped on the motly collection of vehicle attached to the unit, a few old T-55's and some aging APC's. Now only blasted reamins were left of them. A few days after the first attack a lone plane had flown over and dropped two cluster bombs on the Iraqis position killing five men and wounding twice that amount. Now the soldier was waiting for ground forces.

He could hear the battle in the distance where American and British units were already breaking through the Iraqi lines. If only he had been sent to defend a city he might have had a chance, but he was sure he and the rest of the weak Iraqi division on the border would be swept away. The conscript soldier had thought of deserting and surrendering to whatever force lay before him, but the commanding officer had promised everyone in the unit that if they tried to surrender, they would be killed. So here the soldier was, waiting to die and go to the promised land.

First the American helicopters came. Big bruttish yellow beats, with snarling engines and snarling guns. Four of them came over firing off rockets and spitting out cannon shells all over the Iraqi position killing many, but one of the helicopters didn't leave. A shoulder launched SAM fired and Iraqi crashed into one of the American helicopters engines and sent the helicopter spirralling down to the ground with oily black smoke pourring from its engine. It hit the ground hard sending up a cliud of dust. The pilot and the gunner were still alive. They came out, their hands in the air, but the Iraqi sergeant shot them both dead. This was witnessed by the other three American helicopters and they were angry. They flew back over firring what was left of their ammo into anything that moved.

Once they left the Iraqi soldier, shocked but not hurt, poked his head up over the top of the slit trench and looked around. Not much was left of his unit. Of the thirty men, only eight were alive, including himself.

The commanding officer was dead, as were the other officers, Now there was only seven privates and a corporal left. The rpiavtes were all for surrendering, but the corporal would have nothing of it, so he was shot. The remaining seven Iraqi soldiers dropped all their weaponary and used rags to make flags of truce. They left their positions and started to walk towards Kuwait and an uncertain future. They had been walking for less than a minute when they spotted a line of black shapens on the horizon, moving towards them. The Iraqis started to wave their arms around, trying to draw attention to themselves and show that they wanted to surrender. Maybe the tank crews in the Abram tanks didn't notice the flags of truce, or maybe they didn't care for they started to fire their gauns at the Iraqis. Shells crashed around the Iraqis. They were rapidly eliminated. The Iraqi soldier watched in horror as his companions were blown to oblivion. Then he felt extreme pain as a chunk of white hot shrapnel went into one of his lungs. He fell tom the ground, caughing up blood. The world started to dissapear before his eyes. He started to pray to Allah, but he died before he could.

[rocketjager 0]

Sgt Ibraham Al Hazid , Iraqi Republican guard, peered through the vision slit of his T80u tank. As Commander of tank number 1 in his platoon, Ibraham felt especially nervous. Waken roughly from a sound sleep, his commander quickly and hurriedly infromed him to get his platoon in gear and on the tarmac in 5 minutes. He had been given no other orders besides these. As a vetran of the bloody Iran iraq war and the subsequentr persian gulf conflict, Al Hazid counted himself lucky to have any warning at all. Fearing the worst, Al Hazid tried to encourage his men. "We have the best equipment our nation can bestow upon us, you men, are also the best. Do your duty." After mustering these words, Al Hazid took to scanning the nearby hills for signs of enemy activity through his tanks IR scope. Although any activty by the americans would be swift to say the least, Hazid wanted to get off at least one parting shot...he had lost far too many good men in these last 20 years.

His radio cackled at him...it was a frantic deseprate cry, Risen by the local milita commander, to whom his unit was assigned."We have contact with the americans, they have landed by helicopter and are moving in from the north east." Sending up a quick prayer, Ibraham Al Hazada truned his full attention to the grim buisness of war. "We move to do battle...Allah ahkbar!."

[Cloney 0]

Vasquez huddled beneath the sand bern, making sure that his silhouette wouldn't give his unit away.

"Sudo, Rueben, Flank left below this bern. If those T-80s so much as move, smoke them. DeSessio get on the right flank of this bern. When you see Sudo fire the Javelin, I want you to light up the second T-80 with your AT-4. That should fuck up his NAV enough to give Sudo time to reload"

"Roger that, sir." Sudo gathered up his gear and hustled off into the night."

Vasquez ran back over to where Sgt. Kensingsen was keeping watch. At that moment, a voice came over his PRC-126 Radio.

"Whiskey Four-Three, Kilo Two One on station and ready to engage armored targets."

"Roger Kilo-Two One, Engage Target on my mar-"

A loud burst of AK47 fire resounded through the night and some loud shouting aroused from the South East

"Raghead Infantry patrol south south east 150 meters!" a voice called out from down the line. By now, the platoons had begun engaging the contacts. The T-80s were still behind the sand berm and had no visual on Vasquez's squad.

Tracers streaked through the Iraqi sky and the laser devices on their rifles made the firefight quite a lightshow through Vasquez's NVGs. Everyone was cutting into the unfortunate Iraqis with everything they had. By now the remnants of the Iraqi squad were fleeing across the desert. Each soldier was checking his ammunition and waiting for more Iraqis. Miraculously, not one soldier from the 101st was hit in the engagement.

"The T-80 is mother fucking moving" Sudo yelled through his radio.

Vasquez spun around to see the large soldier fumbling with the locking mechanism on the Javelin. A loud thud from a 125mm cannon ripped through the thick night air and slammed into Sudo and Rueben's position. The two soldiers didn't stand a chance. Sudo was torn in half and flung 10 feet from the bern. Rueben was incinerated on impact.

"Man Down Man Down" Vasquez screamed. He turned to the right in time to see DeSessio fire his AT-4 at the T-80. The rocket streaked through the night sky and tore the muzzle off of the offending T-80U. Vasquez ordered his men to form a spread skirmishing line along the berm of the sand dune to the north. DeSessio abandoned his position and formed up with his old squad, he didn't want to make a prime target for anyone with a rifle, or cannon for the matter.

The Lt. hustled back the the Platoon Seargant and keyed his radio: "Kilo Two-One, Whiskey Four Three, kill them all. The armor is active and we are in need of direct support, over!"

"Kilo Two-One do you copy?"

[rocketjager 0]

"Number 3 Tank has been Hit!", Al Hazid's gunner reported with a slight twinge of panic. Hazid quickly keyed his radio headset and called for number 3 to check in. " Our main gun is out of action, we are shaken but alive", the commander replied. Over the past 5 minutes Al Hazid had lead his platoon across the airfield and made contact with an american assualt force in the hills. frantic calls from the Iraqi militamen for armor support had led him there. Reving up their 1250 horsepower gas turbine engines, and firing their 125mm main guns and 7.62mm pkt machineguns, the 4 tanks of the platoon soon had the American pinned to the hill. Al Hazid smiled with staisfaction, for the first time, he felt victory was in his grasp.

[PHY_Hawkeye 0]

"Kilo Two-One do you copy?"

"Two-One copys Whiskey, stand by." Clarke responded. "Two, Lead, weapons free, lets waste those fuckers." Clarke kept the ship in a hover about 20 feet off the sand, the rotors were kicking up allot of dust. "Target locked", that was Laurence. "Fire!" The TOW anti-tank missile lept out of its' launch tube and spead towards the waiting tank. Clarke would have preferred Hellfire IIs but those were in short supply. The control wire danced behind the projectile, Laurence sending signals down it, ensuring the missile hit home. It did. The DU warhead burrowed into the side of the T80 and the turret flew into the air, followed by an erruption of fire. Two-Twos missile had launched a few seconds earlier and struck the front of the third tank, the armor seemed to deflect the TOW, it exploded outside the vehicle. Luckey fuckers. The launches got the attention of the Iraqis on the ground. And the other tank. It swung around and fired it's maghine gun at Kilo Flight. A fixed gun emplacement near a hanger also opened up on them. Now it gets interesting.

"Two, break off to the right and circle the base, come in on a 210. I'm going to circle  to the left and take a 070 course. Gun running time, keep the infantry away from our boys."."Rodger Lead." Two-Two broke off and headed North. Laurence fired another TOW at the lead tank and Clarke took them South. He saw an explosion but couldn't assess how much damage they'd caused the lead T-80.

"Whiskey Four-Three, Kilo Two-One. Will strafe enemy infantry with Twenty Mike Mike. Call in if you require direct fire. Two-One out."

[Cloney 0]

The flashes from the exploding missles were brilliant in the the dim early morning sky. White streaks and giant orange fireballs dotted the tarmac.

Vasquez watched at the Super Cobras opened up on the hapless Iraqi Infantry. It was truly amazing what air support could do if it was used correctly. Vasquez groaned as his heavy LBV cut off circulation to his left arm. He adjusted his harness. He hated the LBV-88 with a passion. It was bulky, restrictive and couldn't even carry that much ammo. Too bad his unit didn't get the MOLLE gear before the shipped out to the Gulf.

"Sarn't"

The Platoon Sargeant stirred and looked at the young hispanic platoon leader

"Take 3rd Squad and circle around the sand dune to the west of the airfield, stay out of sight if at all possible. Make sure that their aren't any bunkers covering the approaches to the airfield. I'll take 1st and 2nd squads and move them East with me. Let me know when you're in position."

Vasquez watched as the Sgt. K gathered up 3rd Squad and moved them out. Kennsingsen was a career NCO and a damn good one at that. It wasn't his first time in the Iraqi desert but he swore that it would be his last.

Vasquez picked up his platoon radio:"Baker, Ramierez, form your squads up on me, we're moving east, use the sand dunes as cover."

The two squads backed away from the defensive parimeter, ever vigilant of Iraqi infantry. They knew that the choppers that were still buzzing overhead were making a hell of a lot of noise and the Iraqis would most likely have reinforcements en route.

Vasquez stopped again to watch the helicopters through his NVGs, they were cutting the Iraqis to pieces with their 20mm cannons firing DU shells. Then he saw a large head blip on the opposite side of the basin. He pulled his binoculars from his webbing. It was instantly recognizable a an SA-8B "Gecko" SAM Launch vehicle.

"Kilo Two-One Be Advised Be Advised. Gecko Launcher South South West I repeat Gecko South West" He looked again and a missle streaked from the firing rail

"Kilo Two-One Gecko Missle Launch Be Advised Be Advised!"

But he was too late...

[FSPilot 0]

With air superiority easilly gained in the first few hours of the conflict, Major O'Donnel's job was just beginning.  His A-10 slowly creeped its way over his kill box, like a hawk perched on a tree he searched for something to destroy.  He had been flying for 5 hours today and not had much to do.  About an hour ago he had just finished up air-to-air refuelling, and his job was getting tedious again.  Just by chance he glanced down to the airfield below.  He saw flashes, what looked to him like tanks engaging tanks.  He rolled  hard to the left and orbited over the conflict below.

"Sentry 5-1, Hawk 2-1, I've got multiple armored contacts at bullseye 320 for 50, declare." he said into his radio.

"Hawk 2-1, contacts are a bogey, hold fire." the AWACs controller replied.

"Copy that Sentry, I am weapons cold and going in for a closer look." He said back to the controller, already on his way in with his night vision goggles on.

The desert was an extremely scary place to fly at night.  It was like flying through a bottle of ink, simply pitch black.  Occasionally you could see the ground from random explosions, but they were of little comfort.

"Hawk 2-1, sentry 5-1, friendly aircraft in the area.  Proceed dry and identify the bogey."

"Copy sentry, I have visual on the bogey, appears to be an enemy tango-eight-zero." He replied as he zoomed over the desert at barely 500 feet.  He was a half mile away from the tanks, hopefully they wouldn't hear him until it was too late.

"Hawk 2-1, cleared weapons hot" the controller replied, trying to make it sound like it was every day work.

"Weapons hot, hawk 2-1" the Major acknowledged and entered a steep climbing turn.  When he began his bank his RWR began to blare.

"Hawk 2-1, SA-8 active, my position" he declared on the radio as he began to sweat.  If that thing fired on him he'd be lucky to be walking home. He reached forward and flipped on the master arm switch, then set his HUD for his 30mm cannon and rolled in to where the RWR was pointing.  Suddenly his target was illuminated as a SAM was launched, probably at him.  His cockpit filled with lights and buzzers alerting him to the missile launch.

"SAM launch, east!" He yelled on the radio, his voice breaking with nervousness.  He banked left hard to put the SAM on his side, then got as low to the ground as he could while keeping an eye on the SAM.  He watched it get closer and closer, it arched over and began to dive into him.  Then, when it was only moments away from impact, he pulled up as hard as he could.  The missile simply couldn't turn enough to hit him, but it exploded near his aircraft.  The entire plane shuddered and twisted in the air.  "Now it's my turn" he thought to himself as he turned towards the SAM site.  He brought up his AGM-65s as fast as he could remember how to, and locked onto the SAM site.  He quickly found that he was in range, then popped off the first missile.

"Rifle." he said on the radio, letting everyone know he had fired an AGM-65.  The missile tracked, getting closer and closer when the launcher fired off another SAM.  The same lights and buzzers went off, but it was too late for the launcher.  Seconds after ths missile lifted off the site was hit by the maverick and exploded.  O'Donnel watched the missile as it continued climbing, and relaxed a little as it didn't track him.  His RWR was now quiet, and now he had some tanks to take care of.

He climbed more and rolled in on the tanks.  As his dive angle approached 25 degrees he carefully aimed just above the first tank he saw.  He slowly squeezed the trigger until he heard his gun go off.  The plane shuddered and began to slow slightly while emitting a loud "BRAAAAP" noise.  Smoke from the cannon obscured his view of the target and his cockpit filled with the smell of sulfite momentarilly.  After one second of firing he released the trigger.  The tank had lit up into a fireball, then when the ammunition caught fire it exploded, sending the turret flying.

He rolled left and craned his neck to get a good view of his next target.  He noticed the tank on the right looked pretty damaged as he flew over the first time, so he made for the one on the left.  He rolled in and leveled himself with the horizon, jinking every so often to throw off any Iraqi small arms fire.  Once he got close enough to the target he leveled off and began a small dive.  He aimed carefully again, taking his time to coordinate the aircraft to make sure he would get a kill the first time.  "BRAAAAAAP", that smell of sulfite filled his cockpit again.  Once he stopped firing, the smoke cleared and he saw that this tank too, was burning.

He had just begun to pull out of the dive and make his run on the next tank when his plane was hit by bullets.  Startled, he banked the aircraft at 90 degrees to the right and pulled as hard as he dared.  Frantically, he searched the cockpit for any lights that shouldn't be there.  When he found none he sighed a sigh of relief to himself and looked down at the airfield to see the machine gun emplacement that had apparently got a lucky shot, or so he told himself, still firing away into the night.  He switched his HUD to CCIP mode, circled around to the left, and armed his CBUs.  The other tank would just have to wait, he thought.  He rolled wings level, then began small jinking maneuvers again.  The emplacement began firing again, probably just at the sound the airplane made.  He got closer and closer to his release altitude, then steadied the plane, put the pipper on the target, and squeezed off a bomb.  As soon as he felt the plane shake from the release, he pulled up hard, rolled inverted and looked up- well, down, to watch.  The emplacement was still firing away when the bomblets hit.  A large circle of the ground simply exploded, engulfing the machine gun as well as some nearby fuel tanks.  "That's going to burn for a while" he thought to himself.  His speed was getting low, but instead of diving in he levelled off at his altitude and brought up his AMG-65G MFD page to get a better look at his last target throught he Maverick's IR sensors.  Sure enough, the last tank crew was waving their hands frantically in the air to surrender.  He tried not to think of their friends he killed tonight, or the American troops that had died because he hadn't been there 30 seconds earlier.  Not now at least, he had plenty of time to think about it later.  He switched off his master arm, set his HUD back to NAV mode and called up the AWACs.

"Sentry 5-1, Hawk 2-1, enemy contacts are either dead or surrendering.  I'm at bingo fuel, can I get relief?"

[PHY_Hawkeye 0]

"What the fuck!" Clarke looked over his right sholder and saw the SAM out of the rear of his canopy, but it wasn't headed towards him. This was the second SAM launch in thirty seconds, he hadn't seen the first. "Two, Spike seven o'clock. Break left, chaff flare!" But it was too late. Just as the Supercobra began a snap turn to it's left the missile slammed into it's belly and Kilo Two-Two was gone. The flash was brighter than anything Clarke had ever seen. Two-Twos' canopy was blown out by red flames. the rotor dome and most of the fusalage disintegrated, and the tail boom flew off in the opposite direction. "Kilo Two is down. Repeat Two is down." The United States Marine Corps had just suffered it's first losses of the war. Semper Fi fellas.

No time to reflect now. Clarke pulled back on the cyclic and pushed full left peddle while pulling up a little on the collective. The Cobra nosed up and turned 180 degrees. "Arm FFARs. Lets waste that shit." The Gecko fired another missile, but not at them. The ship flew fast towards the SA-8 but before they could line up the shot it exploded. "Whoa, what was that?" asked Laurence. Clarke veered away from the now burning Gecko and scanned the sky, which all of a sudden felt vey crowded. Thers it was, an Airforce A-10, a big ugly Warthog. Clarke moved off to the East to stay clear as it made a few passes before shooting off home. He couldn't talk to the pilot, as he didn't know what frequency he was on. There was still allot of small arms fire coming from the buildings, the enemy wasn't beated yet, but the mission was to take the airfield intact, not mush more the Airforce could do here.

Laurence spoke up. "Sir, vehicle movement at ten o'clock." There was a jeep speeding out of one of the small hangers. "Waste him." Ordered Clarke. The Cobras 20mm cannon swung left and a short burst nailed the jeep. Clarke began a wide turn to make another pass and see what he could see. Then clang clang clang. Clarke lost all engine power. The 30 calibre rounds from a machine gun, that had up untill now been silent within one of the buildings, had cut his fule lines. On instinct Clarke bottomed out the collective and puled back a little on the cyclic, looking for a place to land. "Mayday Mayday, Kilo Two-One. I'm hit. Lost all engine power. We're going down." Clarkes autorotation saved their lives, they hit the sand with a thump but the skids held up to the punishment.

"You alright kid?" enquired Clarke as he unfastned his harness and poped his canopy open. "Yeah....Yes sir." Clarke climbed out and reached back into the cockpit, behind his seat to get his M4. Laurence was shaken, but otherwise fine. He too grabbed his weapon. They were not too far from the Army boys. Between the grunts and the enemy. Clarke again reached into the cockpit. The radio was still working.

"Whiskey Four-Three, Whisky Four-three, this is Kilo Two-One. Do you copy, over?"

Ping ping ping. Rounds started hitting off the Cobras hull. "Shit!" yelled Laurence.

"Whiskey Four-Three, Kilo Two-One, we're recieving ground fire here. Can you asist? We're sitting ducks here."

The two pilots took cover behind their stricken ship and waited for a reply.

[Cloney 0]

Vasquez saw the chopper go down, the spiraling from grace as it landed hard in the cold desert sand.

"Whiskey Four-Three, Kilo Two-One, we're recieving ground fire here. Can you asist? We're sitting ducks here."

Thank God he thought, those two Marine boys were alive and well, too bad the Iraqis weren't so grateful. Now he was focusing more on getting the two pilots to safety and less on capturing the airfield. Fuck the mission he though, these men saved our lives.

"Two-One, This is Whiskey Four Three we hear you, you're about 600 meters from our position. We're coming to get you, sit tight out." Vasquez turned off the tac radio and switched to his squad radio.

"Sgt Kennsingsen" Vasquez waited for his platoon leader's reply

"Yes Lt?"

"You saw that chopper go down hooah?"

"Hooah Sir"

"We're going to keep circling around these dunes to their position. Hold you position and have your designated marksmen pick off anyone that shoots at the pilots."

"Hooah Sir."

Vasquez turned to look at first squad's leader, Cpl. Ryan Baker.

"Corporal, your squad is with me. Staff Sargeant Ramierez, you continue towards the objective and assault the airfield from the West."

"Yes Sir" they said in unison

Vasquez peered over to where the chopper was down, he couldn't see the pilots but what he could see were 7.62mm tracers inbound on their position they were in deep shit if they didn't get their fast.

Vasquez hurried around the dune and into a formation of rocks and shrub, they were in a small dip in the terrain and would afford good cover for their advance. He scanned the terrain and noted a dry river bed that ran parallel to the crashed chopper.

"Corporal, move your squad into that riverbed and advance double-time towards the crashed helicopter."

"Hooah sir"

Vasquez jumped up first and hurried 50 meters into the river bed. The rest of 1st squad followed anxiously, always ready to help some of their own people when they were in need, even if they were Marines. Vasquez still hadn't forgotten what the Marines had done for them back in Tora Bora, just a little over a year ago.

Once inside the riverbed, Vasquez picked up his tactical radio again, keeping it in one hand while the other hand was on the cool grip of his M4A1 Carbine.

"Two-One do you copy? Whats your status,over"

[FSPilot 0]

(who you callin ugly? )

With Sgt. Kensingsen on point, the rescue squad moved quickly and climbed up over the dunes, away from the battle.  Their plan was to hook around behind the dunes to get out of the fire, then meet up with the downed pilots and take them back to the main force.  Then jogged through the sand, which was easier said than done with all that gear loaded on them.  Without knowing what was ahead of them, they headed for the smoke from the burning chopper.

The main force began to advance on the airfield.  That A-10 had taken care of most of the armor, but only part of the infantry.  Luckilly for the Americans the fires on the airfield had taken out the Iraqi's ability to see anything out of the dark.  On the other hand, the fires made it harder to use night vision, it was too bright.  They would just have to use the fires for light.  They formed up in a line and walked towards the airfield.  The cover was simply nonexistant, but it was the only way to get to the airfield.  They continued advancing until they reached the burning tanks.

"Move around them, don't get too close to the tanks." Vasquez ordered.  He didn't want any of his troops getting poisoned from the DU shells that A-10 was probably using.  The soldiers moved around the tanks and continued moving.

Sgt. Kensingsen's squad huddled up just before the dune that led to the chopper crash.  They saw the two pilots.  They didn't look wounded, but they would be soon if they didn't get help fast.  Kensingsen ordered his M249 gunner and two soldiers to move down the dune to give them covering fire from the side while they advanced to the crash on his command.

"We're Americans and we're coming to rescue you!" he shouted at the downed chopper crew, hoping they heard him.

"Covering fire!" He barked as he and one other soldier began to sprint down the hill towards the chopper.  The M249 opened up towards the muzzle flashes on the airfield as soon as Kensingsen and the other soldier were running.  They took little to no fire as they approached the downed chopper.

Vasquez and his soldiers advanced closer to the airfield.  They went prone and crawled up to minor barbed wire defenses and began to shoot at the Iraqi soldiers.  They quickly ran for cover.  The two M60 gunners stayed behind on the far right flank to cover the advancing troops, who then went prone and covered the M60 to advance.  They exchanged some fire but not much as they got closer and closer to the buildings.  15 soldiers lined up against the building and threw grenades around the corners to stifle any resistance as the M60s advanced.  Slowly the soldiers switched from "big field" tactics to CQB.  They slowly moved forward, their guns at the ready.

Sgt. Kensingsen and Cpl. Ramirez ran up to and met the pilots at the enemy chopper.

"Are you hurt?" Ramirez asked the pilots.

"I think my legs broken but I can probably walk."  Clarke replied.

"I'm fine, a little shaken up but fine" Laurence said.

"Well lets get out of here then." Kensingsen said as they prepared to move out.

"You two move out first, we'll cover your egress.  We've got an M249 and two riflemen on that ridge over there, go over the dune then hook around and meet them, hooah?" Kensingsen ordered.

"Hooah" they replied and moved out.

The M249 gunner was keeping a close eye on the airfield.  It had been very quiet since he opened fire.  He had been concentrating so hard he didn't notice the other troops moving in on the airfield.  Suddenly he saw movement in the airfield.  They weren't shooting, but he didn't know that friendlys were in the area.

"You think those are ragheads Stewart?" he asked one of the riflemen.

[rocketjager 0]

Consciously, Al Hazid could not determine how long he had blacked out for. He felt as if he were enveloped in a fog, through which the hellish sounds of explosions and screams tried to penetrate.The sight of fires and the the wreckage that lay scattered around nearly convinced him he had been damned. No he thought, as his senses returned to him, he hadnt been that lucky.

Al Hazid felt completly detached from his body, as if he were merely observing his actions and not controlling them. He watched himself stagger from the hard pavement of the tramac and glance slowy around. The devestation the American aircraft had brought was total. What were once the finest tanks his nation had ever fielded were charred hunks of molten metal. As a tanker, he felt part of himself had died along with the steel beasts. As much as he would have liked to reflect, the sharp pops of m16s being brought to bear snapped him from his trance. He was a leader he reminded himself, and his place was with his men.

Al hazid ran from tank to tank looking for survivors. His stomach tied into a great knot when he could locate not one man, only pieces.Ignoring his queasy bowels, he picked through the wreckage looking for a weapon.Shock had given way to Anger, and that anger was quickly transforming into a deep seated emotion he had felt for years, Revenge. So many young faces, comrades, lay buried in the deserts of his homeland. Sgt Ibraham Al Hazid, Iraqi Republican Guard, picked a kalashnikov from the wreckage and ran toward the fiting symbol of his hatred, an American helicopter, crash landed in the sand.

[Col. Kurtz 0]

Meanwhile in the city of As Samawan.......

The Iraqi Sergeant instinctively ducked down below the window as he heared the screech of artillery shells fill the air. The young conscript soldiers in his squad did not reacted in the same way as the sergeant. Instead they poked their heads out the windows of the large room ont eh second story of what was lonce an office buolding. The conscripts had no battle experiance, they had only just arrived at the front, to replace the last squad that had been killed in the fighting. The sergeant had been the only one to get away with his life as the Americans steam rolled towards the fortified city of As Samawan. The squad had been in a truck heading back to the city when a flight of American Apache gunships had flown towards the small convoy of trucks with the intention to destroy. The sergeant had seem the Apaches first. He had leaped out of the truck which was the last one in a line of three. Luckily for him it had been going slow as its old engine strained to keep on working, but he had still sprained his right ankle as he hit the ground. He had quickly picked himself up and ran. He remembered briefly glanding at the face's of the soldiers under his command, they were young conscripts too. He had motioned them to follow him but they had just stared at him. Then they noticed the helicopters skimming across the desert. Then they started to jump, but it was too late. Each truck recieved a TOW missiles each, and the blast killed everybody but the sergeant. He was lucky, and was picked up by a rear guard formed up of some BTR-70's that were speeding towards the city, the Americans hot on their heels. They had been lucky enough not to recieve a visit from any Apaches and they made it safely in the city.

Now he was waiting on the midst of a besieged city for the American soldiers with his squad of untested conscripts. He had once been an untested conscript, back in 1980 at the start of the Iran-Iraq war. He had survived eight years of blood shed, then the Gulf War and he was the wiser for it.

The shells landed in quick sucession. One fell into the street near the building the sergeant was in. Shrapnel flew up and the soldiers that had had their heads sticking out the windows now slumped to the floor, dead. Another salvo came down within seconds of the first. The building shook and the sergeant thought it was going to collapse, but when the shaking stopped it still stood. It was one of the only buildings left standing. Most were now the shells of their former selves.

The Americans came not long after the shells. As he heard the sound of approaching vehecles the sergeant made a quick prayer to Allah, then the enemy was upon them.

The sergeant peeped over the window ledge and looked at the enemy force before him. He estimated there to be about a platoon of American Marines and they were supported by two M2A2 Bradley IFV's. "I wonder where their devilesh tanks are?" the sergeant thought to himself. "Burnt out with their crews dead inside them I hope" the sergeant added to himself.

"Keep down! Don't let them see you!" the sergeant barked, but it was too late. One conscript had poked his head otu to look at the enemy. He then preoceeded to fire his AK-47 at the advancing troops. He hit two, but now the Americans knew that there were enemies in the building. 25mm AP shells started bursting through the wall facing the road. The sergeant watched at as his men were hit some weren't killed outright and screamed in agaony and writhered around, some clutching at stumps were their legs or arms had once been or trying to put their intestinal tubes back into their stomachs. The sergeant turned his eyes away from the horror he had witnessed too many times and picked up an RPG-7 dropped by one of the soldiers. He ducked up, quickly aimed it at the turret of the lead M2A2 then quickly ducked down and dropped the launcher. He heard the rocket explode then the rewarding sounds of secondary explosions confirming he had hit his target. He picked up his Kalishnakov, ducked up again and fired off a few shots at the American soldiers who were now getting under cover. The Bradley he had hit was sitting in the middle of the road burning away. The second Bradley started firing. The sergeant quickly ducked back. The Bradley was now firing HE shells that were blowing chunks of the wall away. The sergeant relised at this point that most of his squad had been destroyed. There was only two unwounded men left. "Quick, let's get ot of here!" the sergeant yelled to them, and order they were more than happy to comply with. They went down the fire escape that led to an alley and made their way rapidly away from the Americans.

_

Can't say thats one of my better writing peices (a bit mumbled up) but there it is......

[Cloney 0]

Vasquez tried to remember everything he'd learned from his training. He stood by the door ready to lead 1st squad into the one of the airfield's auxillary building.

"Go!"

A squadmember rolled a Fragmentation grenade into the room. Vasquez waited until his blew up, and quickly ran into the room, M4 at the ready, one Iraqi was fumbling with the magazine for his Kalishnikov rifle. Vasquez didn't hesitate and gave him 2 in the chest and one in the head. The other parts of the squad were fanning out and clearing the adjacent hallways. Vasquez led two soldiers through a hallway leading to the control tower.

"Baker, Fuentes. Go Go Go"

The two soldiers kicked down the door and seconds later they were in the room. After a hail of shooting the room was clear.

The fighting inside was much more intense than the fighting in the open desert. Inside, things happened in a hurry. There wasno time for mistakes. Vasquez entered the room they had just cleared when they began taking fire from the outside.

Rod Fuentes, who was moving from cover was hit in the neck and his jugular exploded all over the wall behind him. Vasquez, horrified by how violent the young soldiers death had been, just stared at the limp mess.

"Medic!" Vasquez screamed

The soldier was quivering on the floor, knowing that the wound that he'd recieve was fatal, Vasquez tried to console him somehow.

"You're gonna be alright Private, hang in there."

Hey picked up his radio. He then realized that the weapon being fired at them was an M249 SAW

"Sgt. Kennsingsen! Check your SAW gunner's fire. He just committed a blue on blue. I repeat friendly fire, over"

There was still a lot of commontion and gunfire in the building as the rest of the Iraqis were ejected from the remains of the airfield. The sun was starting to come up. It had been a hell of a first day.

[PHY_Hawkeye 0]

Turned out Clarkes' lag wasn't broken, it had just felt that way. The force of the crash had slammed the edge of his seat onto his left femur, but the crash hadn't been violent enough to break anything, just tense up the muscle in his leg. When he started to run towards the ridge the muscle began to loosen up. It hurt to run but he could function. They made it to the ridge and met up with the three Army boys. "Howdey." remarked the SAW gunner, before truning his attention to the buildings. Laurance was on his hads and knees now, puking his guts out. guess his adrenalin was wearing off.

Clarke peered over the ridge at the chopper. The sun was just beginning to kreep over the horizon. He saw Sgt. Kennsingsen and his partner hastly look around, and started running towards the ridge. He peered off past the chopper at the wreaked tanks. There was a lone figure running from the wreakage towards the chopper. The figure carried a rifle. The pilot reached for his own M4 just bafore the lone figure let off a burst of fire at Kennsingsen and Ramirez. Ramirez dropped, the rounds had hit him in the small of his back. On impulse Kennsingsen hit the dirt and crawled towards Ramirez, the two men were totally exposed. Clarke leveled his weapons iron sites on the figure and let off three rounds in quick succession. The first missed, the second found the mans leg, the third his head. That was it for him. A private from the 101st came up beside Clarke. "Not bad for a rotorhead Captain." Clarke allowed an almost undetectable smile; "I'm a marine son. We're all riflemen at heart."

Kennsingsen was now shuffling towards them, dragging Ramirez. When he got to them, a Medic began work on Ramirez. After a few minutes he looked up and shook his head. Just then the radio sprand to life.

"Sgt. Kennsingsen! Check your SAW gunner's fire. He just committed a blue on blue. I repeat friendly fire, over"

Kennsingsen moved towards the offending gunner to stop him, and Clarke began to think for a minute. That voice. It was the

Whiskey Four-Three, but on platoon radio it was allot clearer that it had been in the chopper. It was somehow familiar, but Clarke couldn't put his finger on it.

"Seargent, who's your platoon leader? I'd like to meet him once the area is secure."

[IsthatyouJohnWayne 0]

1979- Ali (19) and his young soldier friends had gone to visit the place of a blind marsh arab known as a mystic near where they were stationed in southern Iraq . They hoped to be blessed before the expected war with Iran. The withered old man admitted each into his tent one by one- Ali was the first to go in. As soon as Ali sat the old man looked up at the ceiling and said

"At Dawn you will die alone at the end of the river ,killed by your savior"

Ali was shocked but had laughed and walked out, insulting the man in front of his friends. How could he be killed by his saviour? Sure enough the following dawn he was still alive.

But something in his heart went numb that day.

------------------------------------------------

2003-With his greying temples and a look of calm acceptance he could have been a religious leader.

Ali bin Akbar bin Saleh bin Hussein Al-Maroun (43) sat at the desk in the long 'aeronautical engineers' room at the far north western end of  'Akhir an-Nahr' military airport. In fact there were no 'aeronautical engineers' at the airport. They had left months ago taking their 'modified' aircraft with them. Now the room was empty except for a few food storage crates ,gun rack ,stacked chairs , wall mounted map and Captain Khalifas desk at which Ali now sat. Not to mention the omnipresent picture of the Great Leader hanging near the desk.

He had listened for what seemed like only 15 minutes since the first report of a possible American attack.He knew that it was much longer than that. Two hours (more?) could have passed since the first radio message had been heard. Everyone else had left him after a few nervous minutes ,shortly before the explosions and gunfire started.

Ali had been ordered by the Captain (a bloated ,ignorant and cowardly man who Ali had always hated) to burn a small box of papers under his desk and then to follow behind them with his Tabuk sniper rifle (hanging on the gun rack). Captain Khalifa trusted Ali and regarded him as his dependable right hand.... or had, he was probably dead by now Ali reflected. But Ali had simply sat down at the desk and listened to a long

succession of explosions and the sound of intensifying and then abating gunfire (which by now rang out only intermittently).

Had his mind focused on it he would have been a little surprised that the impatient Khalifa had not sent someone back to search for him after a few minutes had passed.

Presumably the Captain was too occupied to even notice or care (or had quickly been cut down?)

 A few times the room had shaken as though in an earthquake, the three small windows had shattered and his ears had been filled with a truly deafening roar, but Ali had not moved or even flinched noticably. He had sat staring at a beige stain on the wall just above a stack of chairs at the opposite end of the room. His grey brown eyes

seemed totally entranced.

He had been thinking of his wife and three children ,the round chubby smiling face of his smallest daughter Lamia and his beautiful wife Nuray with her slender body and elegant face.

A tear had come into his eye.

They were all dead. Killed in a Special police raid against a 'pro Iranian uprising' in their village. His whole surviving family had died there. After the 1991 war his cousin had risen up against the president and joined a resistance group

along with a few others in the village. People said that America was going to aid them. But the resistance was quickly crushed and America nowhere to be seen. Most of the village was wiped out in reprisal. Ali had been working in Baghdad at that point and knew nothing of events until his return. In truth he was lucky to be alive he thought. Hah.

He thought also of his younger brother who was blown up in the 1991 war and the five Iranians he knew he had killed for certain almost a decade earlier (others were not so certain) at Qasr-e Shirin in the war with their country (1980-88). He thought of those men often. He had seen their bodies close up. One had been very old and grey and reminded him of his father.

The solitary tear ran down his cheek.

Suddenly a loud bang echoed only a few dozen metres away from his long hut

and he was stirred out of his reverie by the sound of English being shouted with an American accent ,and a few moments later again:"CLEAR!", and another "clear!". He recognised the word having learned some words and phrases of broken english decades ago in better times.

Ali stood up and carefully drew out his chair .The look of calm acceptance on his face had subtly changed and it now looked brittle and on the verge of collapse. His eyes had become wide and looked like puncture wounds bleeding emotion. Was it a look of terror, or rage? or just clarity? With these eyes he regarded the portrait of Saddam Hussein on the wall. He felt nothing. He then walked towards the gun rack and picked out the grimy looking Tabuk rifle. He did not need to check it over however, because he had been preparing for this day for many months. He walked towards the door holding the weapon at his hip. He heard more gunfire outside ,the bark of the Iraqi AK variant, answer fire from two or more rasping American weapons then the heavy 'Kacha-cha-cha-cha' of a support weapon.He pushed the door handle down and walked through into blinding light.....

 It was already dawn. This surprised him. It was going to be a beautiful day. His mouth was dry. He looked east and saw

three American soldiers run between two other long huts maybe 20 metres away

------------------------------------------------

Corporal Salvador looked back for a second towards the control tower. Taking it had cost him a friend or two. He saw Fuentes go down, and Anderson on the floor bleeding like a mofo. He heard Ramirez get hit on the net. Choppers had gone down...

And now they had had to clear these damn huts from which

the Iraqis had put down some serious rounds into the control tower. Some major shit was hitting a major fan, it wasnt supposed to turn out like this...but the thought was abolished in a split second and he turned back to see Vasques and Baker ahead of him rounding the corner of the hut crouching slightly. Salvador felt exposed but noticed there were only small high windows on these huts, hoping that would work in his favour. His good buddy Steiner (a sharpshooter) reported calmly that he was in position. Salvador moved up behind Baker as Vasques tossed a 'nade ,they waited a moment *CHOOF* then rushed into the room....

Nothing. Long dark and empty. Just some junk and a picture of Saddam. Two AKs on a gun rac..*BOK*

a loud bark close outside stopped Santiago in his tracks...

-70 metres away Steiners head slumped down and a flurry of bloody brain covered the back of his DPMs.-

... he bolted to the door ,the others were crouching where they were though. It was a sniper ,they were sure of it. "STEINER DOWN!, STEINER IS DOWN" the screeching voice of Simmons.

Vasques raised his weapon to the window

*BOK* Another shot! Vasques stumbled back past Santiago,blood squirting from his neck, he clutched it unable to scream. Slumping against the far wall he stopped moving in a few moments. Dead for sure.

Salvador was frozen to the spot momentarily unable to decide what to do. The sniper was very close he was reporting but his radio seemed to have gone dead. He moved stealthily toward the hunched form of Baker at the far end of the room, both of them now ducking well below window level.Baker was hyperventilating, he could not deal with what was happening. He began retching, clutching at the wall, his weapon clattered to the floor...

Perhaps 25 seconds had past since the last shot , perhaps more or perhaps less. The sun had started to warm the cold ground and the corrugated iron roof of the hut began expanding, making little pik- pik- pik- noises

-------------------------------------------------

The door burst open and Ali Al-Maroun walked in panting and flung his rifle on the floor. Salvador swung and shot on instinct. A single small hole appeared in Alis gut and he fell crashing back against the stack of chairs near the door and sat bleeding. He was smiling. Salvador looked at the pathetic figure before him. He did not fire again.

As his life ebbed away Ali stared at the ceiling and thought of the old mans prophesy and his horror some months ago when he found out he was some being posted to 'Akhir an-Nahr'(End of river) Airport, he had immediatly recalled the withered old mans face, set like stone as he had pronounced his death.

He thought of all the family he had lost, the friends, the loved ones. He was truly alone in the world. Sprawled motionless he

heard the corrugated iron roof expanding in the early morning light. He continued to smile but his eyes began to fill

with with tears. He looked at the American towering before him.

"Pleeaz" his voice was quiet "whah, what iz nem?",

"Pleaz"

"What iz yor nem?

Salvador was silent for a long moment. When he spoke he too was quiet.

"We came here to save you people....." he pointed at the portrait of Saddam

"from him"

Ali went to sleep.

[Cloney 0]

Vasquez was sprawled out on the floor next to Santiago's lifeless corpse. Maybe today was his lucky day, because the sniper's bullet richocheted off of the radio on his shoulder and hit him square in the chest. Luckily he was wearing his Interceptor body armor with ceramic plates. Maybe today was his lucky day.

It felt a lot like being hit in the chest by a 400 pound football player going 200 miles per hour. He struggled to breathe and didn't even want to dream of the pain of getting up. Instead, he sat contemplating his fate and wondering how he'd survived that sniper's bullet. He wondered how the rest of his platoon was doing.

"Kennsingsen, Do you copy?"

He saw the wires hanging from the totally mangled Motorola Microphone. "Mother Fucker..." He mumbled under his breath. They were the only words he could thing of the describe his situation. He ignored Santiago's dead corpse and looked for PFC Salvador, who'd saved his life. Picking up his M4, he moved to the next room.

Salvador was standing over the dead body, looking down at the dead Iraqi sniper who was starting to look bloated in death.

"Private..."

The soldier spun around to a crisp salute.

"At ease, nice shooting soldier, I'm suprised you still keep that old M16..."

"Thank God for ACOG,Sir!"

"Amen."

"You chest sir?"

Vasquez headed outside into the early morning sun, followed by Salvador. He was beginning to hear signs of "All Clear" through Salvador's Squad radio. His stomach was not prepared for what he saw.

The charred body of an Iraqi tanker, whose blackened fleshless hand reached up to the sky as if asking to be saved from his death. His geletin-like entrails were strewn around him and his arms and one leg were severed at the joints, replaced with black and charred stumps. He knew that he'd never forget that image, just like he'd never forget the look in the eyes of that Taliban militiaman he'd killed back in Afghanistan, the first human life he'd taken.

The wounded were being collected near the control tower. The Iraqi resistance was stiff and the price was heavy. 9 of his soldiers were killed in the fighting, mostly in the room to room fights and due to the lone sniper, the one who'd left a sizeable bruise on his chest. 14 of his men were wounded, most were not even seriously enough to warrant evacuation. Unfortunately, some of his best squadleaders and anti-tank specialists were now dead, and they'd need to be replaced before they went back into action.

Kennsingsen's squads were beginning to move into the airfield complex while the rest of his platoon moved to secure a parimeter for the airfield. Friendly reinforcements were on their way, they just needed to hold onto the airfield for another 20 minutes.

Vasquez squinted as he saw a soldier in a tan flightsuit and flying helmet running towards him. The smirk he had on his face looked very familiar. Vasquez removed his kevlar and began laughing. He knew exactly who it was.

[PHY_Hawkeye 0]

Clarke jogged towards the figure standing in the dirt road. He'd realise why that voice was so familiar. Vasquez broke out in a fit of laughter. "Jesus H. Christ!" exclaimed Clarke as he stopped in front of the Army boy. "If it isn't Sargeant Luiz Vasquez, 101st Airborne!" He glanced at the mans shoulder, "Sorry, Master Sargeant." Vazquez recovered from his laughter and made a half assed salute. "Captain Gareth Clarke. You son of a bitch. You following me around?" The two men exchanged a quick hug and pats on the back.

"Don't complain kid, thats twice I've saved your ass." Clarke remarked. "Yeah ok, I'll give you that one. Nice landing by the way." Vasquez pointed at the stricken Cobra. Clarke thought he detected a hint of sarcasm in the mans voice. "Yeah, well, if it wasn't for your boys getting to us it'd have been my last." Clarke took off his Flight Helmet and wiped the sweat from his forehead, then put on his Sunglasses."You boys still know how to get in the shit I see." "Ain't that the truth." Agreed Vasquez.

As they talked, a number of helicopters flew overhead and into the airfield. UH-60s. Three landed in front of the hangers and soldiers from the 101st jumped out and began to secure the area. A Dustoff landed nearby to collect the wounded and dead. The airfield was now theirs. A Major from the 101st got out of the Dustoff and came over to Vazquez and Clarke. Salutes were exchanged. "Damn fine work Vazquez. Damn fine." "Thank you sir." The major looked at Clarke. "And you are?" Clarke extended a hand. "Captain Gareth Clarke sir. United States Marine Corps." The major accepted the handshake. "Not 'the' Captain Clarke?" He looked at Vasquez inquizitvly. "Yes sir." Vasquez confirmed. "This is the guy who pulled us out of Tora Bora. Best pilot I've ever seen." The Major stared at Clarke. "So you're the guy who cursed me with Vasquez for the rest of my career. Good to meet you Captain." "Thank you sir. I ah.... need to arrange an airlift and get that chopper back to base for repairs. Can I use your radio?" The Major grinned. "No need Captain, it's already at home." Clarke and Vasques looked at each other, puzzeled; then at the Cobra, it was still there. "Sir?" The Major explained; "I just got the word. Your unit will be operating out of this airfield for the time being. Your orders are to stay here and await their arrival. They should be here in about six hours." So, the 'Gunfighters' were coming here. "What about us sir?" asked Vasquez. "We'll be staying here as planned. Guess we're going to have some company for a while." Salutes were again exchanged and the Major walked off to survey his troops.

The airfield looked real busy, not as if it were the site of a battle less than an hour ago. The battle was over, but the war hadn't even started yet.

"Well well..." Remarked Clarke.

"Yep." Agreed Vasquez.

[Cloney 0]

Vasquez awoke before dawn to the sound of artillery fire thumping in the distance. There was an eerie quiet that had settled over the base, almost as if an impending danger was about to strike and there was nothing that anyone could do about it.

There was almost no activity in the base, the only people awake was the platoon on watch from the 101st and a few Marine security guards. His unit had been waiting for a crushing counter-attack that never came. There were A-10s and Navy jets on standy-by incase one came. Vasquez couldn't think of the results of such an attack. His platoon had taken enough casualties, casualties that couldn't be easily replaced.

Vasquez picked up his helmet and body armor and walked over to the flight-line. He thought he might find Clarke there. Instead of finding Clarke he found Lawrence sitting near his helicopter cleaning his M4.

"Warrant Officer Lawrence, you still shooken up Marine?"

"No Sir"

"Thats good to hear, Corporal" Vasquez said patting the young Marine's back. Lawrence couldn't have been older than 25. He looked like a kid and was barely old enough to shave, another kid who wanted to fight for his country but didn't realize how horrible war could be. Vasquez was only 24, yet he was convinced he'd seen a lot more shit than this man had.

"Where is Captain Clarke"

"He went to empty the tank, sir." Lawrence, worked the bolt on his immaculate M4. He'd done an excellent job cleaning and maintaining it. "He'll be back shortly".

Vasquez looked over his shoulder and saw the Captain coming out of the shroud of the early morning shadows.